


imperium

by ezziesworld (orphan_account)



Series: The Depraved Adventures of Joker and You [4]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Biting, Bloodplay, Breathplay, Choking, Cumplay, Dom/sub, Double Penetration, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hate Sex, Knifeplay, Masochism, Multiple Orgasms, Power Play, Rough Sex, Sadism, Unsafe Sex, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:27:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24172054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ezziesworld
Summary: The Joker discovers giving up his control is much more complicated than he anticipated.
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Original Female Character(s)
Series: The Depraved Adventures of Joker and You [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1696144
Comments: 3
Kudos: 39





	imperium

He pushes open the door with no regard for the way it swings and nearly lodges into the wall behind it, leaving a dent in the drywall as it bounces back enough to nick his shoulder on the way in. The apartment is dim, darkness suffusing the residual light that streaks in through the dust coated blinds on the far wall. His fingertips are tingling, left-over adrenaline still courses through his veins like the remains of a heroin high—it makes him restless, _and that is just not gonna do._

He can sense her presence behind him. He doesn’t need to look to know she’s there; he can smell the sickeningly sweet— _and frustratingly endearing_ —scent of her floral perfume. She always carried a waft of pleasing femininity about her, despite the contrary way she held herself, she was _elegant_ in a deadly way. 

It was what brought them together in the beginning, and now, years down the line they dance around each other in a strange sort of caper, balanced each other out in a way; she was beautifully unhinged, strikingly lethal and although he would never admit it— _gotta keep up those appearances_ —he respects her, and she him. A precarious partnership built on their shared affinity for all things chaotic, and somewhere along the line, it had morphed into physical. 

The sudden (although, in hindsight not very sudden at all) leap in their acquaintanceship happened on a night not unlike this one; where they slipped from the not-so-strong grasp of the GCPD, weaving through the alleyways in a stolen vehicle, gunshots and wild peals of laughter like they were some mismatched modern iteration of Bonnie and Clyde, disappearing into the shadows of the night to lay low in an abandoned apartment nestled somewhere deep in the Narrows. They had found their solace, but they still trembled with a type of carnal desire to break, to _maim_. They had taken to each other in a flurry of grappling hands and snapping teeth, not a word shared beforehand and he remembers this little _tidbit_ near _perfectly_ —all her sedition and fury, the coiled tight muscles and the innate instinct to retaliate sizzled out like a fire under a patter of rain, and she, the embodiment of striking destruction, was _pliant_ under his hands. 

The Joker hadn’t taken to substance in quite some time (he thought of his mind as a well oiled machine, drugs tended to muck the cogs and gears, slow things down and skew them), and for the first time, for _quite_ some time, he found himself coming back for more. And more, and—

_really, addiction is a strong word, how’s about hobby?_

And tonight, tonight they are _leaden_ with it. He can sense her and he finds himself itching to use his hands and he knows that’s why she’s still here, why she followed him into the apartment, trailed behind him as he made his way for the dilapidated couch against the wall as though he were making to sit down. 

_Not a chance—nope, got_ other _things on the mind_. 

He couldn’t sit still even if he wanted to; there was no palliating that vibrating urge even if he were to put his whole mind behind it. Her footsteps are light, stepping in line behind him and it’s almost _irritating_ , he’s reminded of a meek child too afraid to ask for something. He pivots in place, catching her off guard with a narrow of his gaze, raising himself to an intimidating stature on sheer instinct. She’s unfazed. In fact, there’s a minuscule glimmer of something alike to mischief in her pretty eyes, and that peaks his interest. 

“You gonna follow me around like a lost puppy, or do something?” 

She cocks her head a bit, looking at him like he already knows, and he does. A little cat and mouse, a little poke and prod, some _games_ before he’s on her like feeling her from the inside is the only thing that matters. And when he touches her skin, when he feels her lips against his, soft and eager, _it is_. Games are nice, too—they’re fun, they’re _tantalizing_ in a way that makes him competitive, and he _always_ wins.

She reaches a hand out, he ignores the cognitive reaction to follow the gesture in favor of her eyes, analyzing the subtle shift of her attention when she lays a palm flat against his chest. Through his clothes it doesn’t feel like much, but there’s a warmth that radiates from her and he finds that he likes it—he may seem like a luminary of destruction, an agent of chaos (and he is— _that’s not something that happens overnight, y’know_ ) but beneath it all there is a man, a human, mortality. Touch still effects him, and _her_ touch in particular is one he’s grown to _really_ like. But there’s something different about her, something _familiar_ that makes him disregard the itch at his fingertips in favor of intrigue. 

She doesn’t say anything as she splays her fingers and glides her palm upwards until they’re at the knot of his tie, where she hooks them beneath and gives a prompt tug. He follows the movement and dips when she tilts her head back, pressing her mouth against his with a touch that’s edging demand. When she takes the scarred flesh of his lower lip between her teeth in a bite, he’s graced with a tickling sensation he’s sure would have registered as pain if he were anyone else. He keeps his eyes open, staring into the half-mast of her own gaze, her thick lashes that cast spindly shadows along the angles of her cheeks with the dull sunset that recedes through the window. 

He contemplates biting her back, but he finds himself _genuinely_ curious.

_What’s turning in my little bunny’s head?_

And so he lets her do it; she tugs the knot on his tie until it loosens, and it’s slips from it’s fastened uniformity until it’s crooked, sideways and then she leaves it, finds that the buttons on his vest and shirt are more interesting. Her fingers are deft, fluidity harnessed at the tips of them with a grace he silently noted long ago— _pulling the slide back on a gun, twisting the final piece onto a homemade pipe bomb with a mirthful smile on her lips, like they’re baking cookies rather than planning destruction, twirling his switchblade, stained crimson with his own blood between her fingers like a baton_ —and then that obstructed warmth from earlier is back, unhindered, _hot_ , her palm is flat against the hardness of his sternum, her fingers arch as she drags her nails down his torso. 

She’s still got his lip between her teeth, he finds that the perpetual lean of his torso isn’t doing wonders for his back, and irritation works it’s way into him the same way her nails do—digging harder and harder until they tear the tension of his marred skin to bring about elegant pearls of crimson. He gives a light groan at that, the prickling sensation of skin splitting pleasant to him, then she releases him. She takes a step forward but he doesn’t back down, grounded and unmovable as her lithe fingers slither down to the hem of his pinstripe slacks. 

“Someone looking for a little, ah... _superiority_?” He breaks the word apart as he says it, laces it with that edge of condescension that comes so easily to him, “could’a said something, sweetheart. I’ll _happily_ let you take what you want.” 

“I don’t want your permission.” She bites back, tugging on the fastens of his slacks. He watches her as she works them off, gazing down his lengthy torso with a outward patience that contrasts her eager movements, but he’s tonguing the inside of his cheek, clenching and un-clenching his gloved hands like he’s restless; and he realizes that he _is_. He’s vibrating with residual adrenaline, and he wants to bend her over the couch and fuck her senseless, but there’s that intrigue still; sparkling in his subconscious like a diamond in the distance, like an ember that glows and beckons, and he realizes that he wants to see it better, to get a clearer look at it, ignite it into a fire that scorches his fingers when he reaches out to touch it. 

He raises his hand and buries it in her hair, wraps it around his fist and gives a jerking yank until her head is tilted back, her fingers hesitating a beat. 

“I get it—you want a _challenge_. Is that it, babygirl? You think; how _fun_ would it be, to ah...flip the switch, _turn_ the _tables_?” He pulls on her hair, forces a nod and she follows the movement with a bit of ingrained submission. He likes that, he likes how quickly her brazen demeanor cracks at just the smallest bit of dominance, but that’s not what he wants right now. He wants to see that flickering ember ignite, he wants to see her embody control. 

He wants to let her _shine_ , then _crush_ that empowering sensation beneath the heel of his own will. 

“C’mon then— _show me what you got_.” He grins, gives her unwanted warrant with a goading twinkle in his blackened eyes, and he sees how it frustrates her, how it blows on her ember and she gives a snarl.

_From bunny to bear—look at that!_

He laughs, intentionally wicked and jeering and she places her hands on his chest, gives a firm shove and he lets himself fall, landing on the dilapidated couch against the wall with an exaggerated huff of breath. She’s standing there, looking feral and stunning all at once, and then she does something he _didn’t_ expect; she reaches into her pocket, he notes how her lithe hands tremble, and produces a little black switchblade. It’s the one he gave her, the _shlick_ as she opens it such a familiar sound, bringing to the surface an intermittent flash of his own knife, of the countless blood types that’s graced it’s smooth steel _—_ _multiple people, but they all bleed the same color—_ and that sinful desire that accompanies those moments, rising inside him at the sound of a knife opening like he’s been trained to the noise. 

“I’d rather you _not_ cut the clothes, _sweetheart—_ custom made, and all that.” He remarks, flicking his tongue out as he follows the way her fingers tighten and loosen around the hilt, the sight reminiscent of his own ministrations.

She brushes the remark off, saunters closer and throws her leg over him, straddling his waist. He drops his head to the back of the sofa, lazily taking in the moment as she raises the blade of her pretty little knife to his jaw, grazing it along the sharp line of it. He’s pretty sure she’s shooting for intimidating, _threatening_ even, but he can’t help but think how she misses that mark and lands somewhere in the realm of benign in his eyes. 

_Cute. It’s cute_ , he thinks. 

“You mean _—_ the way you cut my clothes?” Her voice is lilted with a type of saccharine sweetness that makes him smirk. 

_Oh, I like this—take it further,_ sweetheart _. Do it—do it, make me_ mad. 

The clothes are fleeting, materialistic, he has the means to replace them, the connection of sentimentality severed that would have him mourning for the loss of his new found apparel. But _this,_ this is pivotal. This is leaps and bounds, this is breaking barriers and testing thresholds, seeing how far his little _bunny_ will take things when given the opportunity, see how much she’s willing to hurt him to slake her own wicked desires. He stares her down, implores a coaxing glimmer to his gaze and waits impatiently for her to take it and run. 

She reaches out, her fingers around his thick neck and she pushes his head to a tilt. He follows it and resists the urge to touch her. His arms are stretched out along the back of the couch, a picture of casual as he digs his fingers into the hard wood beneath the textured fabric in an effort to steel himself. He exhales slowly as she takes the knife and follows the prominent tendon in his neck, skimming it down his tawny skin and over his clavicle. With a smooth flick of her wrist she slices through the loose tie, the blade nicking him just barely. He hardly registers the sharp pinprick of it, too focused on her burst of courage.

“You said something once _—_ ” She begins, retreating in her downward path to glide back up his neck, the tip of the blade pushing into his skin enough to indent it. “after cutting all the clothes from my body _—_ my _only_ clothes, might I add _—_ ” she pushes harder, and he feels the way the knife pierces his skin, sinks and steadily slices into the taut flesh of his neck, drawing a pleased hum from his lips,“’clothes, jewelry _—_ sentimental _nonsense.’_ do you follow that? Or was it just ‘ _do as I say, not as I do?_ ’“ 

She lightens her touch, the blade draws back to the surface like a buoy among crimson waters, following his neck down once more and further, passing his clavicle until she reaches the hardness of his sternum, scattered with a tasteful design of preexisting scars _—_ some of which etched into his skin by the very same knife in those same, dainty hands. 

He’s almost disappointed, and then she reaches up and tugs on his hair, pulls an involuntary growl from somewhere deep inside him as she brings her face closer to his and breathes out, 

“I asked you a question.” 

_That’s pushing it—_

He has to physically restrain himself from reaching out, that suppressed motion manifests itself into a barely there bounce of his knee, and he slowly opens his eyes and glances down at her. She’s got the blade pressed against his chest, steadily applying pressure but it doesn’t cut, it indents his skin with a cold bite that makes him swell with something akin to _need—he needs her to cut him again._ He’s had a taste, he’s been granted a sliver of that divine pain and now he’s hungry for _more_. 

“I’ve been known to be a bit, ah, _hypocritical._ But you already knew that, didn’t you?” He replies, steadily. 

She clicks her tongue, it strikes him as condescending, _familiar_. It makes him mad. She’s beating around it, feigning unimpressed and he feels that anger bubble inside him to the point it burns away any semblance of calm he harbors. He _wants_ her to cut into him, to give into it and grant him with that debauched sensation of pleasure wound endorphins. 

“Cut me. _Do it—_ you’re looking for control, for _dominance_? Do something _—_ ” He begins, the words falling from his lips without an ounce of thought behind them, fueled with a barely there veil subduing his frustration. 

“Is that what you want?” She cuts him off, draws the blade back and unsurprisingly that frustrates him more. “Why would I do _that?_ Give you what you want _—_ no, I’m going to do what _I_ want.” 

_Games. Games are fun, games are tan-ta-lizing, I always win—but this time. This time_ she’s _winning. Not fun—nope._ Not fun anymore. 

She rolls her hips, grinds herself against his cock and it shoots a spike of pleasure up his spine, but it’s muffled. It’s not enough and he’s starting to fabricate the familiar sensation of her tight heat wrapped around him, of her back pushed down onto the sofa, his hands around her throat as he fucks her so hard she _cries._

His fingernails break as he burrows his gloved grip into the hard back of the sofa. She smooths the knife over his exposed chest, never cutting into him and it surprises him _—_ how her version of control rivals a torture he himself is likely to conjure. 

_That’s talent—that’s something I can_ really _appreciate. But not right now. No thanks—_

His arm darts out before he even thinks about it, wrapping around her waist and yanking her off him in one swift movement. She gasps, lands on her back beside him and he’s glaring at her, thinking about how fucking _weak_ he is to give in so soon _—_ then he realizes, he doesn’t care. He does not care _at-fucking-all_ , he just wants to break her apart, he thinks, _maybe a little tit-for-tat_ , but he doesn’t have the patience for it. _Next time._

Next time, he’ll see what she does but right now he wants to hear her _scream._ He wants to cut that self-satisfied smirk off her full lips with the smooth end of her own switchblade, he wants to fuck her so hard she’s begging him to stop, he wants to crush her and revel in the delirious look of submission her angled features take on when he’s buried so deep inside her he can feel _everything_. 

“What’s wrong, J? Can’t handle a taste of your own medicine?” She goads, and oh _—_ she is stoking that fire inside him _so well._ He gives a wry type of smirk, distorted with the way he licks his lip as he shrugs his jackets off, lets them fall behind him, not a care in the world for the live grenades and the myriad of lethally sharp blades within.

“Look at you _—_ ” He reaches out, cups her face with a bit of chaste intimacy before he pats her cheek too hard and she winces. “Give you a little _power_ and you’re _high_ on it!” It’s lilted with patronizing inflection, and he knows his frustration is slithering through the cracks of his greasepaint but he doesn’t have the mind to care. 

“Better watch out, your _hypocrisy_ is showing.” She bites, and _that_ does something to him. She’s throwing it back at him, even when he’s looming above her, all encompassing and he wants to be impressed by it, by her _blind courage_ but it only proves to kindle that frustration in him. She doesn’t need a blade or the raw strength of power to hold control, to gain leverage, it’s psychological and perhaps _—perhaps_ that is what’s _most_ infuriating. 

Mind games, his _favorite_ games, and _she’s_ winning. 

“Oh, sweetheart _—babygirl_ , _light_ of my _life_.” He grits the words out, drops his hand from her face to her throat and tightens them around her like a constricting boa. “You really know how to get under my skin, don’t’cha? That make you feel somethin’ _special?_ Make you feel like you’ve accomplished something, ah, _great_?” 

She squirms, wraps her fingers around his wrist but she’s smiling, and that is just _—that is something else_. _She_ is something else, and he thinks he might love her ( _might. big ol’ fucking emphasis on that, but there’s_ something _there_ ) and then he drops himself down, presses his full weight on her and she opens her legs for him, wraps them around his waist and takes the pressure of his body with a shuddering exhale. He kisses her, bites her lip harder than she did him, splits it and moans at the taste of copper flooding his mouth.

That feeling from before came back. The one that eked away in favor of curiosity, the one that tingles at the tips of his fingers and he wants to _hurt_ her. He wants to hurt her so bad she’ll look at the world with a different perspective, look at him like he’s a _God_ in the vessel of a man, but then there’s that contrary nature of hers. He likes that about her, and what a waste it would be, smothering something so bright and _brilliant_ , something so unique and rare and he decides that fucking her to the point she doesn’t know up from down would suffice. 

He bites his way down her neck, takes her skin between his teeth hard enough he can feel the blood vessels bursting. His hands are moving on their own volition, guided by routine, yanking on her pants and pushing her shirt up and exposing more of her creamy skin to the faint glow of light from the streetlamps outside their shitty hideout. 

She glows, ethereal with a stunning pallor, he thinks she’d look better with a little color. 

He sits up, presses a palm flat against her now exposed breastbone to keep her in place as he rummages around in the pocket of his slacks, hanging loosely around his narrow hips. She watches, there’s excitement in her eyes, and he remembers a time when that was fear _—now look at her._ She’s brimming with unhindered elation, _giddy_ at the thought of being hurt and he thinks about how alike they are. 

Love _._ _Stupid, useless, sentimental_ nonsense _._

The knife is cradled in his fingers, he holds it confidently, takes the tip of it and slices though the band of her bra, exposing her pert breasts and he’s overcome with the urge to cut into her, mar her porcelain skin and rend her to pieces. There wouldn’t be anything left, nothing that dredged up that maddening sensation he equates with weakness. Nothing at all. 

He takes her blouse in hand and tears through the fabric with a reckless yank of his wrist. She gasps, squirms and he continues on. Tears her clothes to pieces, unveils her tight little body and the more she is revealed, the more he wishes to cut _her_. He grows reckless, the blade nicking her multiple times as he works, and she whines and mewls with a desperate cadence until there is nothing left on her. His flurry of movements comes to a grinding halt, and he exhales steadily and admires her, takes the knife to her chest once more and this time, he presses in. 

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t wait for her to say anything, he slices a clean laceration down the middle of her chest, between the valley of her breasts and stops just above her navel. It’s sheer impulse that guides his movements, subconscious control that heeds the knife from sinking in too far, and her strangled cry pierces the stillness that surrounds them with a deafening resonance. 

_Pretty_. It’s pretty, the way that line bisects her lithe frame into two equal halves. He’s never been one for generic beauty, for sharp cheekbones and tiny waists, _conventional charms._ He thinks, as his heavy gaze follows that crimson trail upwards to meet her eyes, hooded and desperate and _pliant,_ that in this moment, she is the most stunning thing he has ever seen. 

It makes him want to break her. 

He shifts, pushes his slacks down his hips enough that his cock springs free. It’s been aching since she crawled her way atop him, throbbing and demanding and he groans lightly at the small relief when he takes himself in his hand. He ponders making her beg, pushing that modicum of desperation in her eyes further until she’s verging _pathetic_ , but he’s too immersed in the moment, driven solely by the need to feel her. 

_—like feeling her from the inside is the only thing that matters._

He grabs the crescent of her hip, pulls her closer and raises her waist and she follows, eager and hurried, quivering and cringing at the pull of freshly split skin on her chest. Pressing himself against her, he rubs the head of his cock along her wet folds, gives a snicker at the way she drips for him, and then he pushes himself inside. 

Suffocating, wet, hot tightness that hugs him and pulls him further, he slides in with ease, feels the way she stretches around his thick cock and the moan that vibrates her entire being. He takes her other hip in hand, raises her waist and pulls her against him with a forceful yank, buries himself far enough he can feel the way he nestles into the deepest parts of her, _and it’s not enough_. She flexes, velvet walls clamping around him and it draws a subdued moan from his lips, then he’s moving; pulling back and pushing forward, picking up speed with a vocal groan until he’s fucking her hard, tethering her in place with his iron hold.

He finds himself lost for a moment _—_ watching the way her face twists with pain and pleasure, how she raises her arms above her and grips the armrest, pushes herself in time to his movements to drive him impossibly deep. It’s in a fleeting second of time that he comes to _resents_ her; how she revels in pleasure when he’s seething in his own turmoil of conflicting emotions, how he thinks she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, how he likes that contrary nature of hers too much to douse it, how she, and _only she_ can drag him down to something alike to compliancy. 

He growls, deep and low in his chest, and he fucks her harder. He grits his teeth, backs his movements with a force that burns in his thighs, and she’s screaming his name, a hand flying out to press against his exposed abdomen, her nails digging into the flesh as she compacts into her self. He’s over her, bending her in half and she’s so _tight—_ she’s divine, she’s euphoric, she’s everything he _never_ wanted. He’s rushed with a wave of unhindered fury. 

“What happened to your fire? Hmm _—_ ” He spits the words, releases her waist in favor of gripping her neck, pushing her down like he imagined moments prior. “you get a little, ah _pleasure_ and you fall apart like a _bitch_ in _heat_. C’mon, bunny _—_ show me what you got.” He was strangling her, her words coming to the surface with a rasp he couldn’t make out _—_ and he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care to hear what fiery remark she has at the tip of her tongue, he wants to cut her tongue out so he’d never have to hear another word from her pretty little mouth, never have to experience that uncomfortable sensation of endearment that accompanies her melodic voice, ever again. 

He knows he asked for it. He knows he goaded her on, encouraged her and he knows that he’s a hypocrite. He _knows_ that. 

Her body arcs, her cunt squeezes his cock so tight it’s borderline painful, and she slaps a hand over his wrist, digs her nails into the cuff of the purple dress shirt that hangs open around his frame as she comes violently, spasms around him and floods him with a warmth that has her eyes fluttering. He groans, pistons into her and stretches out her pleasure until she’s on the verge of tears. He barely registers the pleasure that tickles his nerves, too focused on the way her face twists with a look that’s equal parts euphoric and agonized. 

He also knows that she _lives_ for the pain. 

Finally, he lets go, pulls himself back and sits straight, runs his hands through his sweat dampened hair and pushes it away from his face. She’s trembling, a string of stuttering moans spilling from her lips as she comes down from her high. Her sedition is gone, replaced now with the familiar sight of blissful delirium; a welcome sight. He reaches out, cups her face and strokes her hair back, takes a moment to catch his breath. 

“oh, _sweet_ _thing—_ you _do_ look so _pretty_ when you’re _broken_.” He muses, and she looks up at him with an ardor akin to adoration, but it’s weak, it’s hazy and she gives a small moan at the gentle touch of his hands. He’s not content, not yet, but seeing her like this mitigates that white hot anger that consumed him before. Like seeing her so desolate, so easily moldable solidifies the complete control he has over her. He leaves her hair, skims his palm against her cheek downwards, feathers his fingers down her throat and over her sternum until he touches the laceration on her chest. She flinches, whines and the sound wavers and catches steady when he presses his fingers into it, drags them down the length of it with a pressure that pearls fresh blood to the surface. 

There’s something so inexplicably _attractive_ about it; seeing the sharp contrast of crimson streams against her porcelain skin, rivulets that trickle down her sides, pool into the hollow of her navel and he thinks of bringing his mouth down, gliding his tongue along it, dipping into the delicate divot and drinking it up. 

“J _—_ p-please _—_ ” She stutters, breaking him from his reverie, from the hypnotic sight of smearing her blood across her stomach. He pulls away, slips his still hard cock out of her and grabs her hips. He’s moving her, tugging her weak body to his whim until she’s on her knees, her forehead resting against the armrest. He grips the nape of her neck, plants a foot on the ground with a knee on the couch and slides home, watching the way her wet cunt stretches around him, how she takes his thick girth with ease, how her body canters forward with a visible flinch as his hips meet the plush roundness of her ass. 

“O-Oh _—fuck!_ ” Her voice is muffled, and he realizes that she’s biting the armrest. 

_No, no no. That won’t do—I wanna_ hear _those pretty little sounds._

He drags his hand through her hair, grips it and gives a tug.She yelps, digs her fingers into the couch and pushes back against him despite the overbearing pressure he knows she feels, searching for pleasure to soften the sharp edges of pain. He almost doesn’t want her to find it _—_ he wants her writhing, he wants her shattered to pieces in the palm of his hand, _screaming_. He thrusts against her, tears his attention from her angled head to the connection of their bodies, to the way her pussy stretches to take him in, and then something viscerally carnal rises within him. 

With his free hand he kneads the globe of her ass, giving a low hum of contemplation that juxtaposes the fervent push and pull of his cock, and then he presses his thumb against her hole, that tight ring of untouched muscle that suddenly seems incredibly alluring _—that’ll hurt her_. That’ll have her crying beneath him, _begging_ and _pleading_ and his cock twitches at the thought of it. He presses harder and she tenses, gives a mewl of detest and he ignores it, gives his own noise of retaliation; a low growl, a warning, and then he’s pushing past the muscle, his thumb sinking into the dry heat and her back arches with a stunningly pitched wail of pain. 

“What’sa matter, _sweetheart?_ Thought you liked _pain_ with your _pleasure?_ ” He snarls, and it’s sickeningly sweet, it’s dripping with malice and he presses further, sinks his gloved thumb into her ass until he’s down to the knuckle, buried. He keeps his steadfast pace, fucking her tight cunt with an obscene smack of skin, wet and sloppy and she’s _dripping_. She likes it _—of course she does, the little masochist._ He smirks to himself, pushes and pulls his thumb in tandem with his hips. She’s a mess beneath him. She’s gone from desperate to lecherous, her whines have morphed into wanton pleas, and he decides, on a whim, to give her a bit of mercy. A bit of relief in the face of agony _—_ he pulls his hand away, slipping from her now tumescent hole and he slides from her spasming cunt with a bit of reluctance. 

“Please _—please_ don’t s-stop!” 

He finds that her piteous tones are just as endearing, if not more so, as the smooth silk of her regular cadence, and then he dips down and brings his mouth to her. She flinches, pulls herself away with a sound of embarrassment, and he rolls his eyes and grabs her waist, pulling her back. 

“Stay still.” He warns, a snarl edging his words as he flicks his tongue out and drags it from her pussy, to her ass. She’s squirming again, soft moans tumbling from her lips and he digs his fingers into her flank. “Do you want me to fuck you dry? I _will_. I have _no problem_ ripping you apart.” 

She stills, exhales shakily and replies, 

“No sir.” 

And there it is; that submission that blooms from her when pleasure overtakes every cognitive function she has. 

_It only took fucking her senseless to get her there—but I can appreciate the determination._

He dips down again, tongues at her tight hole and slips two fingers into her pussy, curling them and pulling, coating them in her slick. She’s moaning again, pushing herself back against his mouth until he pulls away and draws his fingers from her cunt, the purple leather darkened and wet with her arousal. He licks his lip, presses his fore and middle against the puckered hole and sinks them in without any indication or warning. 

She curls inwards, shies away from the sensation with another whine and he thinks about how, even in the midst of fury and anger, he grants her clemency by way of prepping her, by palliating her pain rather than simply forcing himself into her virgin ass like he would have done if she were anyone else. 

_Sentimental nonsense._

He thrusts them deep, sinks them into her and scissors them, stretches her and savors the painful groan that vibrates deep in her chest, then he abruptly pulls them out, and she gasps like he knocked the wind right from her lungs. That foreign, vexing emotion that too closely resembled care is shoved down into the recesses of his mind. He takes his cock in hand, stokes himself once, twice, and then he presses the tip against her, pushes his hips forward and pulls her back with his grip on her flank.

He hears her nails drag along the textured fabric of the couch, hears the strangled, throaty groan that resonates in her throat, hears his own heart hammer in his ears as he gradually immerses himself into a vise hold that squeezes him so tight it physically hurts. His breath shudders, his head tilts back and his eyes flutter for a brief moment as he’s taken by the impossibly tight heat of her ass. 

“Fuck _—fuck_ , J _—_ -w- _wait—_ ” She pulls away, cranes her head just enough to catch the way he drops his attention to her face, to see what he could only imagine was a look of sheer depravity. He’s barely inside her, and she’s writhing and protesting and it fuels him, it drives him on and he grits his teeth and yanks her back, impaling her on his cock in one swift, agonizing movement. She screams, he stutters a groan, they both sound equally pained, and fuck _—fuck she’s tight._ He couldn’t hold himself still if he wanted to, and right now, that was the _last_ thing he wanted. 

He pulls back, hisses at the drag of it and pushes forward, sinks himself deeper with a low, guttural groan. She’s babbling, nonsensical cries, but it’s distant, fades into the background of his pulsing heartbeat, humming in his ears and thudding in his veins, and he has never been so overwhelmed with such crippling pleasure before, it drives him _mad_. His pace picks up before he can register it, and although that lack of control is something he absolutely detests, he can’t help but lean into it, thrusting himself into her with a vigor that floods ecstasy through his whole being. His attention is drawn once more to the connection of their bodies, to the way he stretches her, to the obscenely thrilling sight of his thick length disappearing into her tight hole. 

“Oh _—babygirl_.” He manages through grit teeth, reaching out he wraps a hand around her throat, pulls her upwards until her back is pressed against his chest and he gets a good look at her profile; her face is wet with tears, her eyes screwed shut and she’s slack-jawed, perpetually moaning. 

“I love it when you get that _power hungry_ look in your eyes, y’know that?” He breathes against her neck, takes her lobe between his teeth with a sharp nip before he continues on, “but you know what I love _more?_ ” With a grunt, he thrusts harder, slower, punctuated _—_ He keeps himself deep, never straying far and that constant friction is intoxicating, it’s gradually scraping off the veneer of his control. She gives a broken moan in response and he snickers, tightens his hold on her neck and echoes her prior words with a clear bite of disdain. 

“I _asked_ you _a question.”_ Even in her torpor he can tell she caught onto it—she’d be daft not to, and if she _were_ , he wouldn’t have kept her for so long. She tightens around him, he bites back a moan and brings his free hand down to her clit, circles it harshly while giving a coaxing hum. 

“W-What _—mmph—_ w-what do you l-love more?” She trips over her words, they break apart with her pretty little noises and he loves that she’s so absolutely _wrecked_. He wants to push her further, wants to see her dissolute. He thinks about how content he’ll be when she’s crumbling into a pile of submissive weakness, how that fire in her eyes will be drowned out with his own influence. He glides his fingers down between her trembling thighs, prods at her wet cunt and slips two inside her, curling them repeatedly. She keens, pushes her sweat slicked back against him and shudders. 

“I love the _filthy_ expression on your face when I _fuck_ that look out of you _—_ when you’re _begging_ me for more because _—_ ” He breaks off, gives a sardonic laugh and pushes his fingers deeper inside her, pressing hard on her g-spot to earn a cracked staccato of a moan, “you’re just a little _slut_ for me _—_ a _whore_ who gets off on pain and _sweetheart_ , you can’t help but want more. _Isn’t that right?”_

She wraps her hands around both his wrists, he realizes that he’s squeezing her neck, constricting her throat until her words are nothing more than a partial mewl of a whine, and he growls, thrusts harder and tightens his hold. 

“You wanted _control—_ I think we both know that’s not true. You just wanted to see what would _happen_.” He’s grunting periodically though his words, and he can feel that tension coil in his lower stomach, steadily rising within him. “Is this what you wanted?” He loosens his hold, she inhales sharply and immediately cries out an affirmation, a pathetic, 

“Y-Yes! _Yes_ , sir!” 

It’s the undiluted tone of desperation he was searching for, and though it does not quell that thirst to _tear_ her to _pieces_ , it eases it, it ebbs it away until he’s focused once more on the inexorable back of forth of his hips. On the obscene slap of her rounded flesh against his sharp hips, of being so deep and tightly embraced in her sleek body that those metaphorical cogs in his head sputter. He’s close, he’s riding on the cusp of his orgasm and the way she flutters around him, the elegant arch of her back and the perpetual shivers that rack her lithe frame tell him she is, too. 

_Ah. One more thing—_

_“_ Tell me what you are. _”_ He bites the words out, they hold a facetious intonation in part with the rising tide of pleasure in his gut, as well as the self-satisfied mirth of getting her _exactly_ where he wants her. She gives a mewl, it’s exhausted and drained and he curls his fingers drastically inside her dripping cunt, presses hard on her g-spot to the point that sweet noise warbles into a high moan. 

“I-I’m a little s-slut _—”_ She gasps, “F- _Fuck_ , J _—_ I-I’m gonna _come_ , oh my _god—”_

“No. No you’re _not_.” He cuts the _t_ sharply, “you’re gonna tell me what you are _—_ then _maybe_ I’ll let you come _.”_ He slows his movements, calling a fierce amount of will to not pound her so hard into the couch that the dilapidated frame of it cracks in half. But he wants to _—_ he wants to drive himself into her until she _bleeds_. He bites back the groan that threatens to spill from his lips, keeps it in his throat as he stills completely, and she cracks, breaks and shatters. 

“ _Please!_ I’m your little _slut—_ your little w- _whore—p-please_ don’t stop!” She’s rocking her hips back, rolling them wildly and she’s the picture of lewd, fucking herself on his cock like her sanity depends on it; _and it does, oh it does._

He slides his hand up, takes her delicate chin in his grasp and jerks her head to the side. She whimpers _—pathetic—_ and he smashes his mouth against hers, kisses her fiercely, dips his tongue past her teeth and tastes the sweet noises that scratch their way up her throat. Then he bites her, splits the barely scabbed wound from earlier and floods their mouths with a fresh metallic piquancy, and it’s invigorating, it’s energizing, it fills him with a baser desire of carnal lust and he lets it consume him. 

He jerks his hips forward, sinks himself deep and groans at the friction, gaining momentum until he’s pounding into her. She sounds _lost—_ indistinguishable words that spew from her lips like she’s a woman gone mad, and he _laughs_. It takes him by surprise, bursting from his mangled lips with a high, jarring peal of unabashed amusement. 

_It’s almost a shame, really. Could’a waited it out—could’a seen what would happen, but you’re_ impatient _, you’re a_ sore loser _—a_ hypocrite _. That’s a joke—ha-ha. Funny. Funny how she’s right, and guess what?_

I don’t care _, not. one. bit._

He grits his teeth, clenches his jaw and finds that he’s choking her again; he doesn’t recall wrapping his hand around her throat, doesn’t register that his grip is so tight she’s squirming, doesn’t realize that his fingers are knuckle deep in her cunt, pressing down and holding against her g-spot with a pressure that stiffens the joints, like he’s gripping the edge of a cliff in a _life-or-death_ scenario. He doesn’t stop, instead he jerks her up higher, buries his face in her hair right behind her ear and he stutters a groan at the way she clamps around him. 

_It’s right there_ ; tugging every muscle in his body, tensing and posed to explode with a force of a nuke in his gut. He bites the words out, implores her to cum around his fingers, to feel the way her own body implodes into itself, takes him in and _that’s_ something _—_ he finds that when they reach their peaks together, it is pivotal, it’s _otherworldly_ , he acknowledges the desire with a bit of disdain as he growls in her ear. 

“Come on, _babygirl—come for me—_ come like a _good_ little _slut—”_

She stiffens, tremors linger in her thighs as she clenches around him so tight it forces a shout from his lips. He feels the way her pussy spasms, feels the flood of her arousal but more so, he’s overwhelmed with the agonizing grip of her ass around his cock, how it suffocates him, draws him in and he’s hit with a maelstrom of staggering euphoria. Like he’s colliding into a solid wall at incomprehensible speeds, it shoots a live wire of electricity through him, a conjoined potency of pleasure and pain he doesn’t _ever_ remember feeling. 

He grits his teeth, snags the gnarled flesh inside his cheek and splits it with the pressure, screws his eyes shut and braces himself, chases that sensation with what little control he has left. His hand slips from her cunt to wrap his arm around her waist and pulls her against him, thrusts himself with an erratic desperation he’s too far gone to care about, and then he comes. It rushes through him, spills from him and floods her and he gasps _—_ the muscles in his stomach contract with uncomfortable levels of tension, his cock twitches and he then he moans, low and ragged, drawn out and wavering. 

Over-stimulation takes him, the odd sensation of prickling that burrows into his skin with a not unpleasant bite of pain. He likes that feeling; he knows how to twist it to his whim, how to let it sink into him and extract pleasure from it. He’s still moving inside her, slow residual movements that have her flinching and pulling away. He thinks about fucking her again _—_ hisstomach twists in anticipation at the idea, but his mind juxtaposes it, and he finds that now, he’s content. 

He slips out of her, they both moan at the sensation. She falls limp against the couch, it creaks under the sudden drop of weight and he licks his lip and admires the way his cum leaks from her abused hole. Reaching out, he places a hand on her back, follows the track of her spine and notes that she’s too weak to shy from the touch _—something she always does, it’s subconscious—_ and then he swirls his fingers around her hole, gathers the translucent white that trickles obscenely down towards her wet cunt and he pushes it back inside her. 

Her breath rushes out quick, an elongated sigh that holds no bite, no fury, no desire for domination of any kind. He gives a low hum, thinking about how she looks now, how he’s able to knock her down to a point where she’s nothing more than a wanton, absent, shell of the woman who embodied destruction, who invoked useless sentimentality and endearment in him, who has the ability to crack his impenetrable walls with just her melodic voice. 

He pushes his fingers further, just to hear her whine again. She does, and she canters her hips back to get them in deeper. He cocks his head, narrows his gaze as he scrutinizes her actions; her head is resting against the armrest again, but this time she turns, presses her cheek into the textured fabric and she _smiles_. 

It’s wild. It really is _—_ the wayhis chest tightens, like she shoved her dainty hand through the cage of his ribs, like she’s squeezing his heart to the point she wants it to burst between her fingers, coat them red and he imagines she would lick the blood off, slowly. It’s what he would do. There’s an undecipherable cacophony of emotions that brew in him _—_ anger, at the forefront. _Emotions,_ emotions _, useless, pointless, ball and chain that just drags me down._ And then there’s something akin to endearment, that uncomfortable sensation he detests, he despises and yet, somehow, with her it’s _bearable_. It’s diluted with resentment, it’s lightened with respect, it’s the closest to _loving_ anyone he has ever gotten. 

He pulls his hand away from her, she moans and it’s lilted again, coated in that melodic cadence that drives him mad in more ways he’d like to acknowledge. He hates her _—he hates her so much._ His cock is hard again, and he doesn’t hesitate; he pushes himself inside her, doesn’t give her an ounce of time before he’s fucking her face first into the couch, but her noises are a different type of sweet _—_ they’re laden with pleasure, not pitched with pain, and he _hates_ how he likes it just as much as when she’s screaming for mercy. 

_Sentimental nonsense._

He finds he’s no longer content.


End file.
